


A Workplace Dispute

by Anonymous



Category: Homestuck, MS Paint Adventures
Genre: Caliginous Romance | Kismesis, F/M, Nonnies Made Me Do It, Tentacles, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-29
Updated: 2020-08-29
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:01:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26167594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: She's left a dress on the back of your desk chair this time.
Relationships: Black Queen/Jack Noir
Comments: 1
Kudos: 8
Collections: Unofficial FFA Anon Collection





	A Workplace Dispute

She's left a dress on the back of your desk chair this time. It's hot pink with green polka dots and a neon orange tulle sash -- you don't know what tailor she's got commissioned to make the goddamn things, but they probably gouged out their eyes with the seam rippers when they finished this one, if the last two didn't blind them by color alone.   
  
Lucky bastard. They don't even have to wear it.  
  
Your fenestrated planes are all like you left them, so it's just more desk work and overseeing and whatever the fuck else her Esteemed Bitchiness feels like treating you to today, unless there's some commotion with the dreamers for you to deal with (or dispatch other agents to deal with, anyway.)  
  
The dress is still on the chair. You sit down and ignore it, because maybe if you don't destroy this time, she'll let it slide. (Then, of course, you'll have to destroy the next couple right away. Lower her expectations again. You feel no sorrow at the idea whatsoever.)  
  
Alright. Paperwork, signatures, yadda yadda yadda. You're good at this, at least. The first stack on the table is half-done inside an hour, and your hand isn't even cramped.  
  
And then. _And then._  
  
The screen's lit up, a face and a hand you know too well. The walls don't have sound, but the message is clear as day.  
  
You know what, fuck avoidance. That was dumb and ridiculous. Why were you even bothering. You flip her off, and keep writing.   
  
A minute passes, at most.  
  
And then, real quick, with no goddamn warning, there's a blade at your neck. It nestles neat under your chin, the blade angled just between the plates of your jaw and throat, and you don't know how the hell she got in here that fast or quiet, but you're not writing anymore.  
  
You sit straight like there's a ruler up your ass, and grit your teeth as you ask her what the hell she wants.   
  
You know what she wants, she says. The tulle rubs teasingly against your carapace through the slatted back of the chair.  
  
You tell her to go fuck herself, and the knife nicks deep enough to nearly draw blood. You're lucky you can live without most of it. Her low laughter echoes through the office, husky and cruel, and it burns like ice where the metal meets flesh.  
  
Maybe, she says, you can help with that.  
  
She casually kicks the chair out from under you, oh-so-graciously letting you lean on her knee while adjusting to its absence. The knife leaves your neck for a tentacle she didn't have yesterday, and she keeps you at arm's length while her hand (just the one, today) reaches for the dress. The knife is a card now, queen of spades. Bitch stole it from your drawers, probably.  
  
The tentacle squeezes your arm a little tighter when you say that part out loud. She watches like she's waiting for you to flinch, so you stick out your tongue instead, for as long as you dare to leave it hanging out in the open.  
  
She brings the dress over. It's tailored just for you. You're not going to waste her hard work, are you? Not after she went to the trouble of personally requesting it.  
  
You tell her you're not wearing the fucking dress, just to see if she'll squeeze you again. If she wants to see you flinch, two can play at that.  
  
She does, and you revel in the little victory for a second before she holds out the unbuttoned dress before you, expectant. There's a slinking, slithering sensation, like a smooth, cold rope, and your leg wrenches up and forward, wrapped in a tentacle like a black snake.  
  
You curse at her, and call her a couple of names. She smirks, and makes you step forward, despite all your physical protests. The tentacle winds around your thighs, and between them to puppet both your legs as she makes you take another step. The tightness around your crotch might sweeten the deal, but that's just part of it all, and dammit you have a principle to defend here.  
  
Now, now, Jack. It's just a dress. Surely you're not scared of a little colorful fabric?  
  
You're the opposite of scared, but god, you can't keep from taking the bait. Stepping into the dress puts you in stabbing range, and she's only got one of your arms, with her own already full.  
  
She catches the blade between her chest and her arm, like a stage actress, but you twist hard enough to scratch up her carapace anyway, scuffing the black with a streak of pale grey and opening a quick spraying slice at her elbow.   
  
It doesn't bleed as much as a proper stab, all her important parts hidden under the thick shell, but the orange tulle gets a new pattern of red polka dots. They're pleasingly wet and irregular, and you grab the fabric and scrunch it under your hands to smear the blood around for good measure. She tuts and twists the tentacles around you one last time, and you grin smugly before she drops you on the floor to fuss over the fabric.  
  
It just won't do to have you wearing something stained. Only the finest for the queen's secretary, after all. She doesn't frown, only looks you up and down, thoughtfully. Probably already planning how to make it worse. Eh. You can deal with that bridge when you burn it, or something.  
  
Lying on the tiles, you watch her leave with a smile and a promise on her lips, of a newer, uglier dress. You yell a few more things at her once she's out of earshot, and enjoy the rest of your day costume-free.


End file.
